


A Foolish Heart (Is Better Than None)

by Myrime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Getting Back Together, Hurt Tony, Let Them Hug It Out, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve comes home, They talk, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony uses the phone, not coping well, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: It takes no time at all for Steve to pick up the phone. “Tony,” he breathes, not at all as confident as he used to but it is still too much, too real, and Tony feels himself shatter all over again. “Are you all right?”Tony wants to laugh, but his chest aches with the phantom pain of the dead suit weighing him down, so he cannot move at all. His heart, on the other hand, seems ready to burst, beating so fast and wild as if it hopes it could reach out and touch Steve just by making enough of a ruckus.“Never mind,” Tony says in a voice he does not recognize at his. “There is no emergency. You’re not needed.” He used to be better at lying than this.When Steve calls back, he does not pick up.- Civil War fix-it, in which Tony is hurt but unable to let go and Steve is just as unable to stay away. It might just be enough to give them another shot at a future together.





	1. A Foolish Heart (Is Better Than None)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get enough of these two (especially with Infitinity War coming up), so have another Post-CW sort-of Fix-it.  
> Enjoy!

The letter Steve sent is creased and worn soft from how often Tony has handled it. Some nights, when he wakes shivering, a scream ready to tear from his lips, he clings to it like it might save him from drowning, his eyes fixed on ‘ _family’_ and Steve’s elegant signature. Other nights it is the very source of his nightmares, Steve’s voice in his ear, telling him goodbye over and over again, although Tony is still not ready to let go.

He knows the words by heart, knows every blotch and every curl of the letters he refuses to comprehend. The paper is crumpled from where he held it in clenched hands and the ink is blurred where he let his tears fall before he could make sure to not sully this last piece of Steve any more.

It is not the last piece, of course, but Tony does not dare think of the phone. He keeps it in his bedside table, always within reach but never to be touched. Because how could he go back from that. Tech had always been a marvel to him, an integral part of the world, but now that it could connect him within seconds with the man he has lost, he almost resents it. A clean break would have been easier – although it would always hurt.

He has never been one to withstand temptation, but he has enough sense of self-preservation left to leave the phone right where it is. Which is why he keeps the ring right next to it – all so he does not take it out at night, cold and unworn, and wonders about the promises they broke before they ever got a chance to make them.

It is not quite enough to keep his fingertips from aching to touch it again. He knows the feeling of it intimately, having made it himself right there in his workshop, a blind smile on his face and so many grand illusions of their future in his head. The design is Steve’s, found in one of his sketchbooks, nothing more than a doodle but still powerful enough to keep popping up in Tony’s mind until he finally sat down and made it come to life. He just never had the chance to give it to Steve, never quite managed to ask the question – because he has learned that, no matter how sure he is of an answer, life has a way of turning things around. He should be glad that he has been spared this heartbreak, but it does not feel like he has.

Coming home felt foreign. The compound was built for a group of people – a family for lack of a better word – and traces of them still linger everywhere. Steve’s meticulous plans are pinned to the fridge, Clint has nests of blankets all over the common areas, Natasha has knives hidden in various places, Wanda’s books gather dust on every available surface.

Tony feels like a ghost wandering through the scattered remains of their presence. He already only comes out of his workshop at night, instructing FRIDAY to leave the lights turned off, but it does not help. Not when, waking or not, memories haunt him of better days, only interrupted by nightmares of their worst. And he is all alone with that.

Rhodey is still in the hospital, struggling with the loss of the use of his legs and refusing to let Tony pester his doctors, refusing to let him apologize too, although that does not stop Tony from bringing new ideas with him every time he visits. Vision has gone to see the world, as he tells it, although Tony knows he has just not dared to step back into the place he was betrayed in. He has to face it at one point, but Tony is glad that Vision takes better care with his mental health and does not take after him. Natasha, of course, is gone. After their argument, she has left without another word, and while Tony is not surprised by it, he is still, ridiculously, hurt.

He still has FRIDAY, but ever since losing contact with him in Siberia when the suit went offline, she has become overbearing, nagging him about food and sleep and minor wounds, everything he could not care less about. More often than not, he drowns her out with music turned so loud it also helps quieting his mind.

In a way, Tony feels more fragile than he ever has before. Betrayal is one thing, but he always had something to build, something to achieve to show the world he was not beaten. Now, however, everything has slipped through his fingers.

He keeps busy, true, but apart from Rhodey’s legs, he has a hard time getting passionate about anything, and passion has always been a big part of his work. He does not sleep, he does not eat, he does not go out. He has also refused to even look at alcohol – instinctively knowing that this is an abyss he will not make it out of another time – so he does not quite think he deserves Pepper’s glares, caught between disapproval and worry. Tony has never wanted her to worry. Especially not now when he has no idea of how to fix things.

Nothing much has changed, truly. He is tired and alone, but he works as he has always done. No one keeps tracks of his scars and nightmares. Least of all Tony himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Pepper waits for him when he emerges from the workshop. It is broad daylight for once and he wears a meticulous suit, the dark badges under his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. He looks unchanged but his limbs are heavy and it takes almost too much effort to move. If the way Pepper’s eyes linger on him is any indication, she can see easily how much it takes him to stand straight, even in his own home. But he has a role to play, so he forces his lips into a smile that has her wincing.

“I’ve got no time,” Tony tells her by way of greeting, intent of rushing past her. “Sorry.” He is not, but Pepper has known him long enough to know that, so he refuses to feel guilty.

“You never do these days,” she says, stopping him cold with a single glare.

Tony can ignore anger and indignation, he can brush off demands and lectures. But her eyes are red and her make up is just the tiniest bit off. He knows what Pepper looks like when she does not sleep; he has never wanted to do that to her. Even less so after they have broken up, when he has stopped being her responsibility.

“It’s not healthy,” Pepper adds, tone softening, and that is his opening.

“Do you know what else isn’t healthy?” he asks, tone not quite as flippant as he has aimed for, but she gets the message nonetheless, leaning slightly away from him. “That Rhodey can’t walk.”

“That’s not your fault,” she answers immediately, causing Tony to huff and look away.

They have told him that so often already that the words have all but lost their meaning. Not that he has been inclined to believe them in the beginning either, but it has become automatic for them to say it every time he even remotely mentions being to blame for anything to do with their recent Civil War. But whose fault is it if not his? He does not dare ask that, because they are as ready to defend him as they lay the blame solely at Steve’s feet, and even with this new empty feeling in his chest, Tony does not want that, knows that it is not true.

“Even if that were the case,” Tony says, resuming his way towards the exit, not reacting when Pepper falls into step beside him, “I can still help him.”

The familiar clicking of her heels is more soothing than he would ever admit out loud. They are a good team, feared throughout the business world, and unmovable if they put their minds to it. Lately, however, it seems like he has to fight against her in addition to everyone else.

“You won’t help anyone if you get yourself killed.” Pepper does not look at him, but her shoulders straighten almost like she is reading herself for a blow.

“I’m sure several people would wholeheartedly disagree.”

Tony refuses to watch her flinch and turns to the door to hold it open for her, only turning around when he is sure she has composed herself. Her glare still stings but he pushes the thought away. His friends, he has learned that reluctantly, prefer to think of him as someone who can be saved. It was flattering for a while, but now the time for pretending is over.

Pepper does not say anything further, but she follows him to his car and gets in without asking where he is going. There is only one other person he visits these days, and Rhodey, he knows, will be glad to have her there, thinking together they might talk some sense into him, not able to accept that what little sense he has had, has long since abandoned him, never to return.

Tony has always hated hospitals, hated how helpless they make him feel, how easily they remind him of all of their mortality. Having one of his best friends here, unable to do anything – he is not coping well with that.

Even so, he has to admit that Rhodey is looking better with each passing day. It is not only that he is growing stronger, able to leave his bed for longer periods every day, capable of going through the endless number of exercises the doctors devised for cases like him, but he is also regaining his confidence. Every step he takes, no matter how trembling, is a success he has worked hard for to achieve.

Tony cannot say how much he admires that: how Rhodey fell but pulled himself up, rebuilt his vision of life. Not without trouble, naturally, but with so much determination.

When they enter Rhodey’s room, Tony notices the glance Rhodey and Pepper share before their eyes settle on him. He knows what that means; they are informing each other silently about the state he is in, how worried they are. It is no different than him hacking the hospital records to keep updated on Rhodey’s state of health, or calling Pepper’s PA to ask hidden questions about her working hours. They care for each other. He wonders whether he will ever get used to it.

“Sour patch,” Tony greets with forced cheer. He owes both of them more than fake smiles, but he cannot let them see how broken he really is, how much strength it takes to face the public even for the little time it takes to get to the hospital and back. New York is full of memories, all of them connected to scars now.

“How are the legs coming along?” Tony asks as they take seats at Rhodey’s bedside, carefully avoiding to look anywhere below Rhodey’s waist. His legs are hidden beneath the blanket, but there is no mistaking how limp they are when Rhodey adjusts his seat, using only his arms.

“The new braces help,” Rhodey says gently, nodding at where they lean against the wall.

Tony is hoping for more than that, a whole report, ideally, but does not want to push. It would hardly be fair – nor true – to say that Rhodey is less invested in making the braces a success. He just wants to do as much as he can with his own strength. Who could blame him for that?

“The doctors say they boost my progress fairly well,” Rhodey adds, lacking the technical terms Tony needs to keep working on them.

“Fairly well is not what I’m aiming for,” Tony snaps, then immediately ducks his head. He has not come to argue. “I’m sorry. Care to show me?”

Knowing which answer he will get, Tony is not surprised when Rhodey says, “I’m not supposed to do too much all at once. And I’ve just come back from a training session.”

It could be an excuse. Tony has noticed early on that Rhodey does not like him to be present when he tries to walk. Although he cannot quite tell whether that is due to some warped unwillingness to show weakness – Rhodey had always been the strong one in their friendship – or because he fears witnessing the damage done would only make Tony feeling guiltier. As if he is not doing that enough already.

“There are ways to fix you up, if only you’d let me,” Tony says before he can think about it. Because there are: Extremis, a new spine, artificial nerves; any mad idea can be made possible, and for Rhodey he would do everything in his power to make it happen.

But Rhodey shakes his head, running on nothing but stubbornness and good faith. “You know that’s not what I want. This is not your battle.”

Tony chuckles bitterly. He is responsible for the fight that crippled Rhodey, so how can it not be his battle? “But that’s what I do. I fix things.”

“I’m not a thing.”

Well, Tony is not either. Maybe that is why he has not any more luck fixing himself. He looks away, properly chastised, wonders why Rhodey does not tell him to leave.

Pepper takes the opportunity to steer the conversation to safer topics, even if it means losing Tony to his thoughts. He used to be good at filling silences with mindless talk, entertaining anyone he came across. They all said so many things they did not mean and kept the important ones to themselves. Truth be told, he is afraid of his own thoughts, afraid of the truths lurking beneath his constant denial.

It is obvious that his friends do not quite know what to make of his silences. They talk with each other but always take time to look at him as if expecting him to answer, and ask him “What do you think, Tony?”, waiting for a couple awkward seconds before going on like nothing happened. He wishes he could be who they need.

At one point, Tony gets up, smiling absentmindedly at some point over Rhodey’s shoulder, and says, “Send me a report on how the braces work, would you?”

“Tony,” Pepper sighs, the sound not quite a full reprimand. But Rhodey merely nods, concern stitched into the lines on his face.

With that, he leaves them to their talking, certain that they will discuss him within seconds of him leaving, but he cannot resent them for that. They are still here, still part of his life, even though he has given them dozens of reason not to. He is also utterly grateful that they let him go, that they do not insist that he needs company or less work or more social encounters. He is letting them down and they are still prepared to catch him once he finally falls.

Tony is not sure how he deserves friends like that.

 

* * *

 

 

Back at the compound, Tony does not go to the workshop. He should get in some more hours of work, but he feels so tired all the time now that it is not even a conscious decision to walk right on to his bedroom, no matter that it feels so foreign now that it is only his again, the scent and feel of Steve long gone.

Not bothering to remove his clothes, Tony lays down on the bed, eyes wide open because he cannot deal with dreams right now. He wonders whether he should use BARF again to try and get him somewhere else. He has been doing that excessively lately, walking the shaking halls of his mind, but not to revisit Siberia, not to overcome his new nightmares and not-so-new scars. Not even to think of happier times to let him go down on one knee and have Steve accept him, not to have a family again.

Instead, he goes much farther back to his childhood, listening to Howard preach about Captain America for hours on end.

_If he could see you. Pathetic, ten times your worth, a hundred. Better than you._

Tony listens and nods along. He has believed this for the longest time, but he is still too selfish to let this cure him from his love.

There, he chuckles bitterly into the quiet of his bedroom, he has thought it again. _Love_. The eternal enigma, the great nemesis of logic. And Tony is a thoroughly logical being, but he is beaten by this love he cannot shake, for a man who has almost killed him, has buried – literally and metaphorically – a part of himself in Tony’s chest, touching his heart only to refuse to let go again, even now that it has been shattered so many times.

Rolling to his side, Tony opens the bedside table and stares at his condemned collection, itching to touch; the ring a reminder of the past they have lost, the letter the representation of their separation, and the phone a taunting whisper of a future Tony stupidly wishes they could have, even with all their baggage.

His hands are almost trembling with the need to pick up the ring, to feel its gentle touch with his calloused fingers, to read the word engraved on the inside. _Together_ , nothing more. It used to be enough.

When he reaches out, he stays clear of the box but picks up the phone, barely any hesitation to the movement as if he is not condemning himself with it. It is a terribly outdated piece of tech, the kind that Steve would have given him as a joke gift to laugh for weeks at Tony’s horrified expression. Only he was not there to watch him unpack it. And the reason for Tony’s shock was hardly a laughing matter.

“And I still love you,” Tony tells the phone, voice barely more than a whisper, “how pathetic is that?”

He should not even think that, much less say it out loud. Thoughts that are not thoroughly buried have the tendency to claw their way to light at the most inopportune moment. Tony is too vulnerable already.

Predictably, he is overcome by the need to hear Steve’s voice, to hear him say his name in that carefree, loving way of his.

Despite knowing what a bad idea it is, Tony pulls out his real phone and, without having to look long for it, plays an old voice message left to him months ago.

_“Tony.”_ There he is, Steve. Always so sure when calling for Tony, certain that he would be heard. “ _I’m sorry, but we’ll be late. Clint only just remembered he promised Laura he’ll take care of the tiling in the upstairs bathroom this weekend, so we’re going to have to make a short detour. Don’t wait for us with the movie. We’ll bring pizza.”_

Tony wishes he could – if only for one night – believe it. He could listen to the message and pretend Steve is just running late while being out with Clint. Maybe some fans waylaid them to get autographs and Steve could not say no. Maybe they stumbled onto an armed robbery and waited for the police to arrive and take the robbers in. Maybe the store was just overrun.

That is not how Tony’s brain works; instead, he remembers perfectly what happened. Exactly forty-seven minutes after leaving that message, Steve and Clint came laughing out of the elevator, carrying enough pizza to feed even their always-hungry group, still in hysterics about some kid falling flat no his nose after seeing Captain America browsing for bathroom tiles. They had all joined the laughter when Clint re-enacted the whole thing, while Steve had let himself fall onto the couch next to Tony with a satisfied sigh, sinking into readily opened arms. They had not separated for the whole night, not when Thor and Clint started a pillow fight, nor when Natasha not-so-stealthily took pictures of them. “For the wedding,” she had said, glancing at Tony in a way that told him she knew exactly what he was hiding in his workshop.

Now, Tony is still hiding the same thing, only with no more chance to make things right.

As usual, remembering makes things worse. The voice message is over and he is alone. Alone in the silence of their bedroom, alone in their cold bed. If only anything other than that would feel real anymore.

Looking down on the screen, Tony eyes get fixed on Steve’s name. Afterwards, he thinks shortly about calling the whole thing an accident: maybe he momentarily forgot which hand was holding which phone, maybe his sight was blurred because he seems to be quite unable to withhold his tears these days, maybe his fingers moved of their own volition. He knows it is not like that, but it is still a better explanation than him being so homesick that he decided to call the man who fought and left him.

But here he is, holding the ancient phone in front of him, display lit as Steve’s name fills the screen. _Dialling_ , it says and it is enough to push Tony into a panic but at the same time he cannot hang up either. Not when his folly has brought him this far.

It takes no time at all for Steve to pick up, too long and not long enough.

“Tony,” he breathes, not at all as confident as he used to but it is still too much, too real, and Tony feels himself shatter all over again. “Are you all right?”

Tony wants to laugh, but his chest aches with the phantom pain of the dead suit weighing him down, so he cannot move at all. His heart, on the other hand, seems ready to burst, beating so fast and wild as if it hopes it could reach out and touch Steve just by making enough of a ruckus.

“Never mind,” Tony says in a voice he does not recognize at his. “There is no emergency. You’re not needed.”

Abruptly, he ends the call, wondering when he has become such a bad liar. Of course Steve is needed. Tony needs him, the old Steve. The one that would hold him and love him. The one that made him a better person.

All gone, now. The silence is suffocating.

Unable to put down the phone now that he is finally holding it, Tony stares down at it, waiting for minutes, hours, an eternity – he could not tell. He is so sure it will not ring, tells himself that it is for the best. Steve knows there is no emergency and that is all the phone is for, all he cares about anymore.

Tony almost reaches for the ring too – what difference would it make now? – when the display lights right back up and ringing shatters the silence. The ringtone is the stereotypical old-fashioned thing, better suited for times when phones where still heavy enough to beat a man to death with. It has Tony almost smiling, even as his eyes cannot leave the display.

_Steve_ , it reads of course, as if there could be anyone else.

“Steve,” Tony says out loud, just needing to hear it. The name feels as wrong as it falls easily from his lips, like coming home.

That is another concept he has always had his problems with, one he is likely never going to solve now. Steve had so quickly and naturally come to call the tower home. The closest Tony has ever come was either in his workshop with JARVIS and the bots, or in Steve’s arms. All of it gone.

The phone keeps ringing, as stubborn as both the men that held it, but Tony does not pick it up. All his misguided courage – or desperation – has evaporated as quickly as it has come. Instead, he puts it back into the drawer, wishing he could be more careless with it, wishing it would crack and break, taking all temptation with it. When he pushes the drawer close, he is strangely glad that it does not block off the sound completely. Silence has always been unbearable for him.

That night is the first in many that Tony sleeps without nightmares.

 

* * *

 

 

A week passes in which Tony does not step foot in his bedroom. He does not think Steve would call again, but at the same time he does not want to give himself the opportunity to act on his weakness. Once is quite enough. He has enough work to do as it is, even goes out more often, meeting Rhodey and even swinging by the office to catch up with Pepper, signing everything she puts in front of him. But he is not himself, constantly hearing Steve in his ear, asking whether he is all right.

When he comes home one night and finds Natasha sitting by the front door, he is not surprised. FRIDAY has not had a chance to alert him of his guest because he has muted her again, but if Natasha truly wants to see him, he would have no chance against her anyway. That said, he had not expected her to show the curtesy of _not_ breaking into his home but waiting for him outside.

“He’s worried,” she says once Tony has gotten out of his car. No greeting, no explanation. He notices, of course, that she carefully avoids to use Steve’s name. Do they think him so weak that he cannot even take that? Her face, as usual, does not betray her thoughts, giving him nothing to work with.

“Bit late to start with that.”

If Tony were smart, he would push past her, get inside the compound and lock himself inside his workshop. Nothing good can come of listening to her, to whatever plan the ex-Avengers have cocked up now. At the same time it is strangely soothing to see her here, in this place they once shared. Tony has no illusions that they are still friends, but these days even broken things are better than nothing.

“He’ll come here if you don’t call him back. No matter the consequences.” Natasha says, the words causing ice to fill Tony’s veins, even while her voice remains soft.

“Is that a threat,” Tony asks, wondering whether it matters. Threat or not, he cannot let Steve come home. Not with the government after him. Not with their own issues unsolved – unsolvable.

“Tony –”

“I think I liked you better as Natalie Rushman,” Tony interrupts her suddenly, desperate to change the topic. “Back then you at least pretended to listen to what I say.”

It is true, he thinks, the people he is close to know not to listen too closely to him, used to his tendency to ramble and fill silences with either mindless chatter or technical terms going right over their heads. They also know they need to read between the lines with him. Too bad people seldom care to do that anymore.

“I listen –” Natasha expectedly argues but Tony cuts her off with a harsh laugh.

“Of course,” the smile he wears is ugly, “always gathering intel. That’s what gives you the upper hand when abruptly changing sides.”

To give her credit, she does not rise to the bait, does not defend herself, although Tony knows, deep down, that he is wrong. Natasha only does as she was taught, as they all do. She has had his back more often than she stabbed it. That should count for something but Tony cannot bring himself to care.

He is a stranger in his own life.

“Go back,” he says, tone growing softer, “Tell Steve it was a misdial. It won’t happen again.”

It is not quite a lie. Tony did not want to call and it _cannot_ happen again. He just needs to keep telling himself that so he can maybe start believing it.

Looking at him like she knows exactly what he is thinking – and truly, it is not hard to guess – Natasha gets to her feet. “He will call every day for a week at eight,” she says, not giving away her own feelings on the matter. “If you don’t pick up, he’ll come.”

Not ready to deal with his emotions at her declaration while she can still observe him, Tony merely nods. They stand across from each other for a long moment, neither talking nor making a single move. It is like the first weeks in the tower all over again, when they all did not trust each other, careful to give each other space, not used to living with anyone much less having a team. Back then they had been more hopeful, of course; their stories were only just beginning. Now, everything is over.

“Goodbye, Tony,” Natasha finally says, making a show of turning her back to him like that means anything when he knows he could never take her by surprise.

Tony watches her leave, watches as her small figure disappears into the darkness of the night. Only when he is absolutely sure that she is gone does he relax his pose.

“Take care,” he says into the silence. He cannot quite tell whether he means that for her or for himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve does call. Each night like clockwork the ringing starts at eight and carries on stubbornly, endlessly. It completely upends Tony’s non-existing sleeping schedule. At exactly ten minutes to eight, he bids FRIDAY to save his work – mind already so frayed by that time that he rarely has to interrupt anything important – and makes his way to the bedroom to sit on his bed. He opens the drawer of the bedside table and waits, staring at the phone, not quite sure if he wants it to ring or to remain silent. He has no control over it either way.

When the display lights up and the ringing fills his ears, Tony says, “Steve,” like he has to practice the name, like it is not the first and last thing he thinks every day. Then he lies down, shutting the drawer first with too much force but more reluctantly each day, and falls asleep to his very own lullaby.

It does not keep the nightmares at bay but his mind is somewhat dulled, less prone to fall into a panic. He feels like balancing another edge but the abyss calls his as much as the safe ground. He is a wreck.

On the fifth day, Tony takes out the phone before he lies down and holds it in his hand as he drifts into nothingness. In the morning he wakes ashamed and still curled around it, none the wiser about how to deal with this situation.

On the sixth say, his fingers hover over it, ready to push the button to pick up, seemingly ready to end it all, end it before he can fall into more heartbreak. When he finally finds the courage, the ringing has long stopped and all that meets him is his blood rushing loudly in his ears and the dial tone, almost haunting in its cheerfulness. He likes to pretend it is a relief that he is too late but he does not let go of the phone all night, even when he does not sleep.

On the seventh say, FRIDAY has to remind him of the time. Tony walks towards his bedroom at a brisk pace, almost afraid he will miss it, but then hovers in the doorway, so very unsure about what to do. Thoughts war inside his head, fragments of the Tony Before and After, both of them broken. He is just not sure whether he believes in irrevocability yet.

He thinks about late night dinners Steve brought to his workshop when Tony has, once again, forgotten to come out to eat with the team. He thinks about getting kissed awake at sunrise when Steve got up for his morning run, about curling up in the warmth he left behind and only being lured out by coffee once Steve was back – or the promise of showering together. He thinks about fighting together, about moving instinctively to shield each other, complementing each other perfectly.

Of course that shifts into thinking about fighting _against_ each other. About bunkers and metals clashing. About soldiers losing their minds and friends turning into enemies. He remembers watching his parents die and Steve looking at him with murder in his eyes. He thinks about blood mixing with snow.

Tony remembers Steve saying _together_ , and the force with which the shield hit his chest.

The ring, he knows, would have fit Steve perfectly.

One minute left until it is eight and Tony makes a decision. He does not have a good track record with those, but at one point, he is sure, he cannot get any lower.

“FRIDAY,” he says, voice surprisingly steady, “ask Rhodey whether he is sick of the hospital yet and wants to go out for dinner with me.”

He does not wait for an answer but simply turns around. The phone starts ringing just as he closes the bedroom door. He does not look back.

 

* * *

 

 

“What happened?” Rhodey asks when they are already halfway through dinner.

Since Tony has picked him up, he has listened patiently to Tony rambling about everything and nothing at all, feverish enough to make it seem like he wants to make up for all the weeks of silence. He has not asked about the braces even once.

And Rhodey, good friend that he is, does not interrupt him, does not comment on Tony’s dishevelled state, does not protest when Tony makes to push Rhodey’s wheelchair despite knowing that Rhodey likes to move with his own strength.

They go get burgers in a run-down diner where the owner knows them well and will make sure they are not disturbed. Tony’s burger is cold by the time he first stops talking for longer than a second, and he looks away when Rhodey asks, but not in the way that precedes him telling a lie and changing the topic in all his unsubtle glory. No, he looks away because he is ashamed or afraid. It gives Rhodey hope.

“I might have done something very stupid.”

A smile tugs at Rhodey’s lips. Countless of conversations have started like this over their years together. It could either mean that Tony is healing, or that they are facing another catastrophe. Although, admittedly, the two are not always mutually exclusive where it comes to Tony Stark.

“What did you do?” Rhodey prompts when Tony drifts off, biting his lower lip like he used to do before his father made him lose the habit. His voice does not hold as much of a groan as it did during their MIT times, nor as much horror as it has since Afghanistan. He wrongly, naively, thinks they are beyond surprises.

“I called Steve,” Tony says so rushed that Rhodey does not comprehend what he is saying at first.

When he does, though, he resets his evaluation of Tony’s perceived maturation immediately.

“You did what?”

Steve, the man who had managed to make Tony happy, made him eat and drink and sleep properly and loved him with a passion. They had argued and disagreed and made up countless times and through all of it they did not stop smiling when they thought no one would see, paired with the tendency to cling to each other with the kind of love that made them seem inseparable. But Steve is also the man who had broken Tony in ways no one had managed before, not Howard or Obadiah, not the ghosts of his own mind. Losing him was nearly fatal for Tony, and Rhodey cannot begin to imagine what getting him back could mean.

“I called,” Tony repeats impatiently. “We didn’t talk, but Natasha said he’d come if I wouldn’t pick up.”

Rhodey tucks the information that Romanoff has apparently deigned to come back away for later. “If you wouldn’t pick up when?”

“He’s called every night for a week.”

As much as Rhodey hates this slowness, he knows not to rush Tony, is amazed that he talks at all after weeks of dancing around each other.

“Today was the last chance.” Tony has his head lowered, looking almost afraid of what Rhodey will make of this.

“And you went to dinner with me instead.”

“Just as it started ringing.”

They stare at each other, Tony hopeful in a way that has Rhodey wanting to hide him away from the world.

“I don’t know what to do,” he then says.

For a brief moment, Rhodey wishes Pepper were here. She is the one capable of turning every mess into something manageable, of making sense of anything, of handing out tasks to salvage any situation. But he knows why he is sitting here instead of Pepper. This is not something Tony wants _managed_. This is something he wants to do right.

“Do you know what you want?” Rhodey asks, just shy of shouting whether Tony has lost his mind. That has never helped anyone.

“I –” Tony says, avoiding his eyes, “Yes.”

And there it is, the obvious truth, the one Rhodey cannot shield him from: Toney wants Steve back. Rather, he wants back the life they had. The compound filled with the team like family, a world that trusted them to save it, a love untainted by betrayal. Rhodey has never been in the habit of telling Tony that something is impossible. He will not start now.

“Do you want me to be there?” he asks instead, noticing how Tony perks up at not being dismissed, at not being told off for dreaming.

“No,” he says, sounding more certain than he has in weeks. “Just – just keep your phone close? In case –”

“You bet I will.”

Rhodey plans on doing more than that. If Rogers actually comes back, they will have a nice little talk. Rhodey is not afraid of taking on Captain America, even without the use of his legs. Not when this is about Tony. Steve might have left Tony for his best friend, but Rhodey will make sure that he is either prepared to stay or never come back.

“Now,” Rhodey exclaims cheerfully, like they have not just made a step into the future – a rather improbable one at that. “We need to order you another burger. This one’s all cold, and I won’t let you go home without having had something to eat.”

Tony stares at his plate, face carefully expressionless, but when he looks up his eyes hold all the emotions he has kept from his friends for so long.

“Thank you,” he says in a tone that makes Rhodey wish he could just get up and pull him into his arms. But it is better to not remind Tony of his predicament. Not this night.

Instead he raises his glass of soda and clinks it against Tony’s.

“Always.”

 

* * *

 

 

FRIDAY warns Tony almost half an hour before Steve is due to arrive at the compound, spotting him entering the security perimeter she constantly watches on his motorbike. It leaves Tony enough time to save his work, pack a couple of things and take the suit to leave. Instead, he sits motionless in his workshop, lost in the maelstrom that is his mind.

Panic flares at the thought of seeing Steve again, fuelled by the anger and feeling of betrayal still present from their fight in Siberia. But there is also an inexplicable surge of longing. Ever since the battle of New York, Steve has been a constant in Tony’s life. More so than the other Avengers, because Steve had been more lost than them and Tony tried his best to be his anchor – and only succeeded in drowning himself.

“Captain Rogers’ estimated time of arrival is in fifteen minutes,” FRIDAY announces, ripping Tony out of his musings.

He has still time enough to leave; he could go anywhere in the world, take a break, try to rebuild his life. Although he cannot say what good that would do. The damage is done already. Running will not help him heal, and above all he wants to feel less broken than he is now.

Tony slips on his wristwatch able to turn into the gauntlet, unwilling to go completely unarmed, even with FRIDAY capable of summoning the suit at a moment’s notice. Then he makes his way to the living room and sits in an armchair facing the door. He huddles inside a blanket, despite knowing it will not do anything against the coldness in his bones.

“FRIDAY,” he says, wondering how his voice can sound this even, “unlock the doors.”

Then he waits.

“Captain Rogers has arrived at the compound,” FRIDAY announces several minutes – _ages_ – later, “do you want me to give you a visual.”

It is tempting. To be able to get a glimpse of Steve so to better mask the shock it will undoubtedly be. But Tony tells her “No,” fearing that it would push him to flee after all.

He leans back in the chair, hoping to ground himself, and keeps his eyes trained on the door as he listens. His breathing comes irregular and his heartbeat is too fast, but he is not sinking into another panic attack, his mind is too alert for that.

Steve was always able to walk so quietly, but now Tony hears his steps long before he comes into view. Maybe it is meant as a reassurance, but to him it is only another indicator of change, another clue of how far they have fallen.

Then, barely leaving Tony the chance to brace himself, he is there.

Steve looks different, but that is not only due to the wild hair and beard and dark combat clothes. There is a look in his eyes that Tony recognizes easily, for it is the same he sees every time he cannot avoid looking in the mirror.

Tony can imagine how he looks himself, small and tired, almost disappearing under the blanket like it could hide the truth of how much he has faded since their last meeting. They are not so different after all. And still, when he meets Steve’s gaze something goes soft in the blue eyes, which would be better suited for a meeting of lovers.

Steve stops in the doorway, and neither of them speaks for a long while, occupied with taking each other in. When Tony cannot bear to look anymore, it breaks the spell, causing Steve to come into the room. Cautious steps but each shortening the distance between them. Tony is just re-evaluating his decision to sit down – Steve is as tall as he appears in his nightmares, although his presence is not yet as suffocating – when Steve chooses a seat on the couch opposite to him. It leaves half the room and the feeble glass table between them. Nothing much in the terms of a barrier but enough to keep Tony rooted in place.

“It didn’t take you as long as Natasha,” Tony finally says when the silence threatens to become thick enough to clog his lungs.

There are things they should talk about, now that they find themselves in the same room again, but all of those things bear the potential for so much more pain that Tony does not dare find the words for them.

Steve, on the other hand, seems relieved that he started a conversation at all. “I didn’t care much for stealth.” His voice, despite being rough from disuse, is so familiar. Not the alien, hard thing directed at him in Siberia but one of a man who cares. Tony does not believe it.

“Rather bold for a man who is still an international fugitive.” The public’s bloodthirst might have died down a bit but that does not mean it is save for Steve to traipse around America without a care.

Giant idiot that he is, Steve simply says, “I made a promise.”

Tony chuckles, harsh enough that it scratches his throat. Funny, really, how fickle Steve is in deciding which promises he keeps and which he tears apart without a second thought.

“I guess the lack of red, white and blue is throwing the government for a loop,” Tony bites out, each word pointed to hurt, “they haven’t yet noticed that you’re prone to changing you tune on a whim.”

Showing no outward reaction to that, Steve’s eyes do not waiver from him, the kind of intensity in his gaze that made Tony believe him time and again. “I haven’t.”

“So you’re here to finish what you started in Siberia?” Tony leans forward, baring his teeth, satisfied to see Steve flinch. “Shall I lie down and bare my chest, or does it take the fun out of it if you can’t knock me down yourself?”

Tony wonders what is wrong with him. He should be afraid, should give in to the panic rising in the pit of his stomach. He has relieved the events of Siberia so many times in his dreams that his body never had the chance to forget the pain, and his mind has never stopped drifting into sudden blanks filled with an abject, unimaginable horror. Worse still is the sense of relief growing ever stronger. Tony had known this would happen, one way or another. All the time they spent together, through all their happy moments, Tony had been waiting for the end. No matter how horrible it was, how destructive, the waiting was finally over.

Only it is not. Tony knows the pain of being left, the longing for simpler times – but the way he stills clings to Steve’s memory is ridiculous. How easily he gives the man who tried to kill him the means to destroy him further.

“I promised to come back if you needed me,” Steve says, voice calm but uncertain, spoiling their chance to argue by ignoring what Tony has accused him of.

“I wish you’d promised never to leave in the first place,” Tony counters, bitterness dropping from his tongue, “imagine how much trouble that’d have spared us.”

That was the wrong thing to say because it certainly piques Steve’s curiosity. Truly, he should have said he wished Steve had never come back. This way, however, he has offered up too much of his own treacherous heart.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says and looks the part. There is something hopeful in his tone that Tony just wants to crush.

“That is not worth much though, is it?” If one of them has experience with apologizing, it is Tony. He has also learned that it seldom changes the facts, so it is not worth lingering on it. “Where is Barnes?” he asks before Steve has a chance to say anything else.

And it is a pressing question, even if FRIDAY would have alerted him of another intruder. It is too easy to imagine Barnes stepping out of the shadows to stand at Steve’s back. The two had moved so well together, like they had never been parted for seventy years. So much so that even through his grief and blind fury, Tony could not help but feel sad at the sight, accepting too easily that he was doomed to lose.

Recognizing the change of topic as what it is, Steve nevertheless answers hurriedly, “Not here. He’s in Wakanda, healing.”

Tony accepts the news without reaction. He still does not know how to feel about Barnes. His anger is gone, burned out quickly and drowned by everything else he lost that day. It has left a mess he cannot make sense of; does not know whether he wants to, really. Because he has tried facing his feelings before and that did not end well at all, landing him here where he stares at the man he has loved so much he thought it could save him.

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone?” Steve asks into the silence that separates them more than all the shouting they have ever done before. They always had something to say, something to argue about. This is gone, too.

“I told you there was no emergency.”

“It was for more than that,” Steve counters calmly, like he has any right to offer reassurances anymore. “For when you needed me.”

Pulling the blanket tighter around himself, Tony hides his shaking hands beneath it. “I didn’t,” he says, immediately biting his tongue at his slip. Not, _I don’t_. Past tense. Steve has to notice that.

And he does. Bright eyes and earnest, ready to throw them into another catastrophe. “Did you want me to come?”

“No,” Tony answers honestly, but does not say that his means he honestly wants Steve to leave again either.

“Where do you keep the phone?”

“Bedside table,” Tony answers tonelessly, not caring for how much that gives away. Steve cannot condemn him for holding onto the only thing he has left for Tony, no matter how brittle a promise, and one never meant to be fulfilled if Tony had any say in it. Both of them being here feels as right as it is a recipe for disaster. Another one. As if they do not have enough scars already.

Much to Tony’s surprise, Steve looks questioningly at the hallway leading to their bedroom, setting off immediately when Tony shrugs. It has been both their room before and there are still so many things of Steve’s there, put resolutely out of sight but still never far from Tony’s mind. It is not his place to keep Steve from going there, not when he has invaded much more guarded places already.

Reluctantly, Tony trails after him, careful to never quite lose sight of him, but leaving enough distance between them that Steve cannot take him by surprise with any sudden movements. His mind cannot really stop seen Steve as a threat when once he meant safety.

Steve, however, moves with a purpose, long strides carrying him down familiar hallways. He barely hesitates before pushing through the door. The mere idea of Steve in their bedroom has Tony wanting to bolt. The good memories are the worst ones, taunting him with what he has lost. But he keeps going until he is in the doorway, where he stops, putting his arms around himself as if they pose any barrier against Steve.

Tony does not say anything when Steve moves around the bed and sits like he has still any right to it, does not keep Steve from opening the drawer, full well knowing what he will find there: the letter, the phone, the box.

Reaching out for the phone, Steve freezes when he registers what else is in there. His head makes an abrupt movement as if to look up to find Tony, but he cannot tear his eyes from the drawer. He picks up the box, opens it – all with very slow, automatic motions. Everything about them has been fast and wild and fiery. They were always subconsciously aware of their time running out. This stillness now is such a fragile, unfamiliar thing. But it is strangely fitting, because Tony does not think either of them is fit for running anymore.

Even from across the room and keeping track of his escape route, Tony witnesses the exact moment Steve realizes just how much has been broken between them. A breath escapes Steve, almost enough to make his whole body falter. Then they are both utterly motionless until Steve comes back to life with a jerking movement, reaching with a trembling hand for the ring but stopping just short of touching it.

“Tony?” A myriad of emotions hidden in his name alone. “When –”

“Before,” Tony says without cruelty, causing Steve’s head to snap up. When they look at each other it feels like strangers meeting for the first time – if not for the fact that they know each other, deep down. “It hardly matters anymore, does it?”

Steve stares and shakes his head. “You kept it,” he finally says, posing it as a question he does not dare ask.

“Can’t get rid of the memories either.” The ghost of a smirk flashes over Tony’s lips, even as one hand sneaks upwards to better protect the scars on his chest and the heart beneath, stumbling along painfully. “But that’s just stupid human nature for you. You can never quite let go of the things killing you.”

Steve flinches violently but the sight holds no satisfaction for Tony. They have always been good at hurting each other. Better, or so it appears, than at keeping each other safe.

Opening and closing his mouth like he does not know what to say to that – and who could blame him – Steve turns back to the ring. This time he does not stop himself from touching it but picks it up carefully, appearing unwilling to risk damaging it. The sight has something like bitter laughter curling in Tony’s stomach, although he forces it down. He took care to make that ring as indestructible as possible without vibranium at hand, thinking of the future battles they would have to wage. He just had not thought those would be against each other.

Rather abruptly, Steve straightens and raises back to his feet. The motion has Tony taking a step back, which Steve thankfully does not notice, all his attention on the ring.

“Yes,” he then says, looking back up, leaving no doubt to what he means, answering a question that has no more room between them.

The sheer audacity of it has Tony’s throat constricting, fighting against the bile threatening to rise.

“I didn’t ask,” he forces out, barely able to keep his tone even when all he wants is to scream at Steve and ask whether he has finally lost his mind. That ring was meant for two wholly different men than them. Even though, in retrospect, they might have been as unsuited for each other then as they are now.

“But you wanted to and I would have said yes.” It all seems so easy for Steve, while all Tony can imagine is how much worse it would have hurt to be beaten by his husband instead of just the man he loves.

“Things changed.”

“My answer hasn’t,” Steve says. Earnest, stupid Steve, holding a ring meant for another time, thinking they can still be salvaged from this mess they have created.

Laughter bursts from Tony’s lips, an incredulous, helpless sound, threatening to tear him apart. It echoes uncomfortably in the room that used to be theirs.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“But –” Steve protests, because of course he cannot let this go. As much as Tony cannot let him continue.

“Steve,” Tony cuts him off almost gently.

He averts his eyes, unable to keep looking at Steve who is now clinging to the ring like it offers salvation instead of even more disaster. If he ignores the panic constantly simmering in the back of his head and the way his body is posed to turn and run at the slightest notion of things going south, he can almost appreciate the familiarity of being here with Steve in this place that no one could touch but them. Until Barnes, at least. When the pictures emerge, he does not push back. The memories are never far from the surface and he does not have the strength to fight anymore.

“You hit me with the intent to kill,” Tony says simply and does not quite mean it as an accusation. In his dreams, he shies away from the look in Steve’s eyes, feeling the blows a hundred fold. But here, telling the truth is surprisingly easy.

“No.” Steve’s protest is weak and he trails off, searching for words that will not come. Tony is not sure whether he is angry or relieved that Steve actually seems to believe this. “I wouldn’t – I was out of my mind with – But I wouldn’t do that.”

How very reassuring, Tony thinks and smiles. “Do you want me to show you the scar you left? Should FRIDAY bring up the medical report?”

“I’m –”

Tony shakes his head harshly. “I don’t even care much about that anymore.” It is not quite the truth, because he is more of a wreck than ever, but it does not bring him any satisfaction either to see Steve miserable. “It’s done. We both did the unforgiveable and fought each other.”

Steve stares at his hands clenched around the ring. “It isn’t unforgiveable.”

All Tony can think is that they are disagreeing again already like they have always done. Steve makes it sound so simple, as if they do not have a dozen issues each, which they did not know how to deal with when they were still on the same side. “Isn’t it? But how could we go on from here?”

“Together,” Steve says without hesitation.

Oh, the irony. Tony wonders whether Steve has read the word engraved on the inside of the ring or if they are just stuck in a loop of the same old hopes and the same old fears.

He remains silent, unable to talk or move. Only when Steve walks back around the bed and closer to him does Tony wake. He shrinks further into himself, raising a hand as if that has ever stopped Steve before, as if he has even the slightest chance of putting up a fight.

Miraculously, Steve freezes where he is, shoulders sagging like he attempts to make himself appear smaller. His face, for once, is utterly unreadable when he asks, “Do you want me to go?”

“When has that ever mattered?” Tony sneers, cursing the pressure building behind his eyes. He has had so much hope for this – for _them_ – and things had still broken like everything else.

“I’m asking you now.” Like they still have choices now, like they have not wrecked their ship and burned with it. “Do you want to get rid of me and everything we had?”

“We can’t erase the past.” Tony knows that, he has tried it before. Has tried to erase the red in his ledger, the poison his father planted in his mind. The foundation of everything one tries to build sits on the ground of the past. There is no escaping it, only to take what one has got and to make the best of it.

“But if you want – if you need me to, I will go and never come back.”

Where was this conviction, this loyalty, in Siberia, or any other time they argued? Still, Tony does not take much time to think about his answer. It has been simmering inside him for years; dimmed perhaps by recent events, but he knows his heart, even though he seldom dares to listen.

“No.”

Tony is just so tired of arguing, of constantly reliving his nightmares, of hurting with the phantom pain of Steve trying to kill him. He wants them to stop yelling, to stop assuming the worst about each other.

In a perfect world, he would wake each morning in Steve’s arms, safe and whole and looking forward to their future together. He has always known that their world is not perfect. And now he can barely look at the man he still loves, cannot bear the thought of being touched by him and held close. But he still wants him. Wants him to stay, to heal, wants to build something new together, no matter how impossible that sounds.

“Stay,” Tony says, barely able to hear himself over the thundering of his heart. “Just don’t,” he gestures at the distance between them, “don’t touch me or try to kill me again.” A sound tears from his throat that cannot be mistaken as anything but a sob. “But stay. Please.”

Steve stands motionless, eyes fixed on Tony but not seeing him. The emotion on his face is so raw, so honest that Tony feels he can only cut himself on them again, but there is no aggression there. Steve is as hurt as he is and they are both to blame for this mess. They should not end like this.

“Do you truly want me to?” Steve asks, voice trembling with the dozens of other questions lying underneath. Questions of trust and blame and fear and love. Questions they can only answer together.

“Yes,” Tony says and straightens, arms uncurling from his body, opening himself up to whatever may come next.

He watches as Steve slumps, all strength and tension bleeding right out of him. A smile tugs on his lips that is borne entirely from relief because they are yet so far from even thinking about being happy again. But they might be, with work and time and the stubbornness that they are known for.

“Then I will,” Steve says. At once, breathing becomes easier, despite the hurt still pressing down on their chests. “I promise I’ll never leave again.”


	2. Love By Any Other Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since several people asked or it, here is a second chapter to - hopefully - give this a kinder ending.  
> Hope you like it. Enjoy!

_Snow colours the edges of Tony’s vision a blinding white, keeping his gaze centred on the swirling mass of red and blue and white in front of him, closing in._

_Shield raised, Steve says, “_ I can do this all day,” _and hits Tony, hard, using all his enhanced strength._

_Cold seeps through the cracks in Tony’s armour, keeping him frozen in place but not yet numb enough to ignore the slaughter Steve makes of him. First the faceplate goes, exposing his screams alongside his throat. But Steve does not want to kill him yet. He takes his time disassembling the man he used to love. Without hesitation, he raises his hands anew, coming down on Tony’s chest again and again._

_Looking down, the arc reactor flickers. That is enough to give Steve pause for a moment. He leans forward, close enough that Tony can see himself reflected in his eyes; broken, bloodied creature he has become. Almost gently, Steve reaches out and trails a finger over the crack splitting the arc reactor apart, a last caress between them._

_Then he draws back and, foregoing the shield, tears the armour apart with his bare hands, looking like it is cathartic to put an end to_ them _himself. He only pauses once Tony’s chest is exposed, heaving with ragged breaths and a hundred silent pleas that will not be heard. Not here. Not between them._

_“Tony,” Steve sneers down at him, getting ready for the final blow. “You never were a good Stark, yes? Never a good man either. You’re pathetic.” Howard seems to be looking through his blue eyes, but the voice is all Steve’s. “You’re nothing to me, Tony.”_

 “Tony,” it comes again, more insistent, maybe less harsh, although his name will always cut in that voice. “Tony, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

Of course he has. Everything has turned into a nightmare, waking or dreaming. Waking up never changes a thing. They did fight and Tony has lost everything.

“Tony, please.”

The begging is new. That thought breaks the dream’s hold on Tony. The blinding snow grows darker, grey forming itself into the familiar black shadows of his bedroom. A figure hovers over his bed and Tony does not need to connect the voice to it to know it is Steve. He would know him anywhere.

Later, he will blame his reaction on the fact that his body and mind are still caught in the imagined walls of the Siberian bunker, although the answer is, naturally, simpler than this. He jerks upright, stretches out one arm as if to fire his repulsor and, when nothing happens – because he has taken care not to wear the bracelet to bed to prevent just this – scrambles as far back from Steve as he can manage in a blind panic, expecting FRIDAY to inform him about system failure and broken bones any second now.

Nothing happens – other than Steve looking like he has been hit fatally, and Tony’s panicked breathing filling the silence between them, accompanied by the stuttering of his heart.

“You’re safe,” Steve says, hesitating over the words before trying again. “You’re in the compound. No one is attacking you. It was just a dream.”

“It wasn’t though,” Tony mumbles, still out of his mind. His voice is rough, scratching the inside of his throat.

Steve lowers his eyes, too afraid of what he will see in Tony’s face. Tony uses the opportunity to watch the other man, to search for the worry lines his dream self never has. It helps grounding him back in reality. It is true that Steve has beaten him half to death, but Tony is still stupid enough to trust that this Steve, who came back to him, will not do that again. Not without being triggered. And Tony barely speaks to him, barely makes his presence known, all to keep up their precarious balance.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asks, causing Steve’s head to jerk up. The sudden movement has Tony flinching.

This whole situation is ridiculous. They are dancing around each other, too hurt still to try reaching out, too damaged to put the past behind them. As much as Tony does not want to be seen in this state, to be vulnerable, he cannot stand the thought of Steve leaving again. He does not know Steve’s reasons for staying.

“You’re shivering,” Steve says, and Tony tries his best to ignore the worry beneath the words. “I’ll go and make some hot cocoa. Maybe come into the kitchen when you’re ready?”

Tony wants to refuse outright. He does not need to be babied and he does not need cocoa. But he remembers mid-night meetings with all of the former Avengers. Someone had always been up in the tower and later the compound, all of them plagued by memories keeping them from sleep. Some of his favourite moments happened then, in the hushed cocoon of darkness. All of them were gentler there than in the bright light of day.

When Tony looks up from his clenched hands, Steve is already gone. His breathing does not get easier, but his mind slows, realizing he is neither attacked nor back in Siberia. He could laugh at how fragile he has become, but he is afraid laughter would turn into crying soon enough and he does not have the strength to let himself fall apart and put himself back together afterwards.

Minutes pass, maybe hours, while Tony concentrates on familiar things. The soft blue light of his alarm clock, the shape of the burner phone lying open atop his bedside table. He is home, he repeats like a mantra in his head. He might not be all right, but he is home.

Limb by limb, Tony disentangles himself from his blanket, clammy with sweat, and discards them along with his shirt on the ground. With slow steps he makes his way to the bathroom and contemplates a long moment whether to turn on the lights. He does not like the look in his eyes anymore these days, does not like how deep it goes, his hurt, how very obviously broken he is. But it helps to see that he is alive, that he is not bleeding and there sits no arc reactor in his chest, ready to be ripped out. It helps to keep him grounded.

With a trembling hand, Tony turns on the light but avoids the mirror, keeping his eyes on his chest or his fingers, and splashes water into his face. He is still hot to the touch but freezing.

Once he has somewhat cleaned himself up, he fetches a new shirt before he turns, rather reluctantly, towards the kitchen. If he has felt like a ghost in his home before, when he was actually alone, it has become much worse now. Things move when he is away, new things appear, old ones vanish. For all the months he has spent alone here, he has tried to leave the place as undisturbed as possible, both to prevent stirring up his memories and destroying them. With Steve back here, life goes on and Tony can no longer hide from the time passing.

Tony smells the hot cocoa right before he sets foot in the kitchen. Despite himself, a smile steals itself onto his lips, because they have spent so many nights like this. Before. When he enters the room, Tony’s face is blank.

Steve, on the other hand, brightens visibly when he notices Tony. Luckily he does not say anything – words have become so rare between them – but simply puts a steaming mug in front of the place Tony usually occupies these days: back to the wall, overlooking the room and as far from Steve as possible. It is a concession, a show of good faith, and Tony is exhausted enough to nod his thanks. He sits, breathes in the familiar scent, imagines what it would be like to be whole again.

“How did you know I was having a nightmare?” He asks at one point, halfway through his mug, the need for sleep weighing down his body.

“I – you screamed. I thought –”

If Steve heard him that must mean he was not sleeping himself but wandering the compound in that worried relentlessness of his. The guestroom FRIDAY has assigned Steve is mercifully far enough from Tony’s bedroom that here is no reason for them to notice they are not alone in the building if they did not occasionally meet in the common areas. So, even with his enhanced hearing, Steve must have been hovering nearby. Tony cannot allow himself to think about that, about Steve coming for him when he is so very vulnerable, not now when his mind is still ready to throw him into the next panic attack.

“You thought what?” he asks, voice as scathing as he can make it with his throat still hoarse, “That you were missing out on all the fun?”

Steve winces, as he always does now when he feels guilty. The satisfaction it brought has worn off quickly.

“I thought I could help,” he says, sounding so earnest that Tony could almost believe there is not a civil war separating them, and quite a number of scars, inside and out.

“Have you ever?” Tony drawls, not allowing himself to give in even an inch, not when he is still shaking. Drowning the rest of his cocoa, Tony stands and turns to leave. As much as he can sit motionless for hours now, lost in the never-lessening maelstrom of his mind, Steve’s presence always makes him restless.

He is almost at the door, when Steve calls out. “Tony, will you be all right?” When Tony glances back, he sees Steve biting his lower lip, likely cursing himself for his choice of words. “Tonight, I mean.”

“Leave me alone,” Tony simply says, wishing he could still demand, still expect the world to fall into place for him.

“But –”

“I’m fine,” he snaps, hand on the doorknob and ready to run. “I’m awake now. Do you have to torment me in my mind and in reality?”

Steve looks very much like the last thing he wants to do is let him go. There is a trembling to his hands that, strangely enough, helps to calm Tony. He does not know whether it is borne from anger or fear or tiredness, but it is something they have in common. Neither of them is quite whole anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. The words have all but lost their meaning, considering how often they use them, but Tony takes all he can get.

Without another word, he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Siberia is always on his mind these days. The cold, the pain, yes, but most of all the sudden fracture of losing Steve. Loss of trust, loss of love, loss of something he has never had the chance to name, although it made him feel whole.

Tony knows betrayal, knows it intimately, but this is more than that. This is realizing that Steve never trusted him fully even before. This is giving up a future he has done his best not to hope for. Only he did, and now it is gone along with everything else.

Steve is back, of course. He is careful and deliberate and trying so hard not to cross any of Tony’s limits. They are both hurting, and still this is better than being all alone. But Tony cannot look at Steve without seeing Siberia, without thinking about his parents, or even the Ultron debacle before that. There has always been opportunity for distrust between them, but Tony had thought they managed to balance on that edge, keep themselves upright and whole together. Turns out he is more of a fool than he ever feared.

When Tony feels coldness reaching for him, icy fingers burying themselves in the gaps between his ribs, threatening to tear him open, he bites his cheek hard until he tastes copper. Through the pain he claws himself back to the present. It is not quite a healthy method to keep his mind on track and not always effective, but enough if there is no trigger pushing him into flashbacks.

Blinking several times, Tony recognizes the compound’s living room. The tablet he has been pretending to work on lays forgotten at his side on the sofa. It is dark, no lights turned on, meaning he must have been sitting here for a while.

He is disoriented as to how he got here since he usually avoids staying in any of the common areas for too long, never quite feeling safe there since Steve can happen on him there at any time. But he remembers Steve leaving first after dinner, so Tony chose to sit down for a moment to give Steve time to get where he is going, minimizing the chance of them being caught together in one of the rather small hallways. It is ridiculous and a sign of how very unwell he still is, but he does not have the strength to try and change it yet.

Deep breaths, Tony remembers, and focussing on something that is real. Most things the shrink Pepper had sent him too had said, Tony has forgotten again immediately. His issues, he is sure, are too deep-rooted by now to change anything about them. With time he has learned to live with them all. Not exactly well, perhaps, but enough to function.

“Are you all right?” Steve’s voice sounds from the door, ruining all the progress Tony has made with calming himself.

Tony jerks his head up, eyes fixing on Steve’s tall figure, dark against the bright lit hallway, to assess his mood and posture, searching for warning signs. As usual these days, Steve is calm, hesitant, making no unnecessary move as to not aggravate Tony’s conditioned reflexes. This caution would be endearing, were it not so very necessary to keep Tony from snapping.

He cannot talk so he simply moves his head in an undecided motion, half shake, half nod, just another cry for help which Steve does not know how to give.

“I’ll make you a coffee,” Steve murmurs, turning on all the lights before he comes into the room. Still, he walks slowly, close to the wall, towards the kitchen.

Steve does not approve of Tony’s increased coffee consume, but he perhaps understands Tony’s need to be alert whenever he ventures out of his room or workshop. In any case, he does not try to curb Tony’s caffeine intake like he did before.

The familiar sounds of the coffee machine and Steve getting out cups helps Tony to calm down further until he can almost convince himself he still sits in the living room by choice. He breathes and breathes, and slowly uncurls his fists, and swallows the hysterical laughter rising in his throat. What a wreck he is.

He tracks Steve’s movements as he comes back, bearing two steaming cups, which indicates he will stay for a while. The thought has Tony’s heartbeat rising a bit but he squashes it down. There is no use in avoiding each other if they want to get over this, despite the pain. And Tony _does_ want to get on with his life. _Their_ life, if at all possible. And his demons will not go away from doing nothing.

Steve sits, putting the coffee down like a peace offering. Then he watches with a small smile as Tony picks up the cups, touching it in the same places Steve had, and cradles it close to his chest.

The silence between them is not as awkward anymore as when Steve first came to stay, but they still feel the absence of words between them dearly. Or that is until Steve speaks and Tony wishes for the silence back.

“Me being here doesn’t help you heal.”

It takes a long moment for Tony to look up from his coffee, his eyes finding Steve’s immediately. There is no way to explain that it does and does not help to have him here, because Tony cannot quite understand it himself. This longing and how it is so very intertwined with his fears. But he has at least come so far as to know that losing Steve will hurt more than having him close.

“No,” he says simply, and then, “Yes.” He shrugs, fighting the urge to duck in anticipation of Steve’s answer. Which comes promptly.

“Wouldn’t it be better if I left?” Steve asks in a way that makes it obvious that this is not a spontaneous question but one he has thought long and well about asking.

And again Tony says, “No,” panic creeping into his voice. If Steve wants to go it means he has lost this battle they are unwillingly fighting.

He is not sure whether he can put his thoughts into words. He used to be so sure about his feelings for Steve. But that was when he thought he knew him. When he thought he knew himself.

_Explain your feelings_ , the shrink had also said, which Tony dismissed without a second thought. Howard had always discouraged him from feeling too much, since that would certainly impair his work, muddying his thought process to the point of him making mistakes. And mistakes were unacceptable.

But he is not working now and everything has gone to hell already and he is just so tired of trying to keep himself together and all his hurt inside. So Tony just opens his mouth and speaks, not dictating his tongue for once but just letting the words flow.

“My heart still races when I see you. It always used to do that because I loved you so much I thought I would burst with it. But now I’m –” he almost chokes on the words but presses onwards, knowing he will never do so again if he stops now, “I’m afraid of you, but it feels so similar.” Tony grimaces when Steve flinches away from the words. “So I don’t know whether that is still love and I just need to get over the fear to feel it again, or whether one has completely replaced the other.”

With that, Tony’s throat constricts, barely leaving room for air and much less more words. It is too much. All that remains to be seen is whether it is enough.

It takes effort but Tony keeps his eyes on Steve to gauge his reaction, hoping to be able to glimpse which direction their conversation will take now and their whole life with it.

And Steve does not disappoint. He has never quite gotten the hang of hiding his emotions. Lies, yes, and secrets, he turned out to be good at those. But in a direct conversation he has no chance against Tony, who has been trained since childhood to read people.

“I never wanted this for us,” Steve says, grief apparent in both voice and face. They are both full of regrets but maybe, hopefully, not for being close to each other in the first place.

“I believe you,” Tony says gently. For a brief moment he thinks this is it, his chance, finally, to reach out and rebuild one of their many bridges. His hand twitches but he is physically unable to raise it, so the distance between them remains, causing Tony to grow sombre. “And I also believe that Steve in the bunker. The one who looked at me with enough anger to burn right through me.”

“He was wrong,” Steve argues tonelessly, like they can make a distinction between the two, like Siberia was a mistake they can talk away and pretend only his old Steve is back here with him.

Tony thinks – hopes – he has lost all naivety in that regard, although them being here in this situation is already proof otherwise.

“But he was still there,” Tony shrugs, strangely detached despite feeling each heartbeat like a hammer in his skull, “who can say when he will come out again.”

“If,” Steve says, so quietly Tony barely hears it. Louder, he adds, “I don’t want to lose control like that ever again.”

Control was never quite the problem, Tony supposes. It might be what led them to almost killing each other, but the starting point was them not trusting each other enough.

“I like to think that you didn’t want it in Siberia either,” Tony smiles bitterly, “otherwise I’m much more of a fool than I thought.”

First, Steve looks away at that but catches himself at the motion and jerks up his head, finding Tony’s eyes with an expression caught between pleading and determined.

“Of course I didn’t,” he says, and Tony wonders where he finds the strength for his conviction.

Almost nonchalant, Tony shrugs. “But Bucky is your friend.”

The thing is, watching Rhodey fall out of the sky had emptied Tony’s mind of all rational thought too. Gone were his orders from the panel, gone was his anger about Steve’s antics. All that mattered was his best friend. If Steve had attacked Rhodey like he attacked Bucky – he does not know what he would have done. Naturally he likes to think that he would not have hit to kill, but Rhodey and Bucky are about the only family either of them had at times.

“Tony, I’m –” Steve interrupts himself, burying his face in his hands for a moment to compose himself. It seems like they are not getting answers any easier by being calm than when they were making a sport out of screaming at each other. “I don’t know whether it is a good idea to be here, but I do still love you. Even though I have no right to it.”

“What does right have to do with it?” Tony asks, laughing quietly, “Or logic for that matter.”

“I know we can’t return to what we had but I want to build something new, something stronger.”

“Then stay,” Tony says simply as if it is not him shying away from Steve every time they happen upon each other. “Stay and we’ll figure something out.”

It is only when Steve looks at him searchingly, something tugging at his lips that could be a hopeful smile, that Tony thinks he might believe his own words. Pressure seldom helps matters but knowing that they are on their last chance here might be the needed push to quell Tony’s panic.

He has always known that he is his own worst enemy but he never thought it would play out like this.

 

* * *

 

Tony is afraid of Steve’s touch. Not because he thinks it will hurt again, but he knows it will make the distance between them all the more real. He remembers the feel of Steve’s skin on his, remembers the gentle warmth. If he has that again, even only for a moment, he will never stop longing for it, even while his mind shies away and his body expects blows instead of caresses.

So, the first time they touch it is completely by accident.

Tony has been thinking about this moment for weeks now, their first touch After. He imagined them talking, finally, freely, maybe forgiving each other once and for all, and then they would first shake hands but move further into a hug because Tony has always fit perfectly against Steve’s chest, and how could the future turn out anything but right when they keep each other safe in the confines of that embrace? He imagined it as an experiment; Tony coming up to Steve one day, steeling himself before he holds out one hand, and Steve staring at it in hopeful confusion, while Tony wishes with all he has got that he will not flinch away from it, that he can stand being touched by Steve without getting thrown back into Siberia. He has also imagined it as another fight breaking out, Steve tearing into him because he has become tired with their impasse.

That is not how it happens. Instead, sleep-deprived and trembling with exhaustion, Tony stumbles as he crosses the kitchen, sloshing hot coffee over his hand. He is dizzy so he reaches out to steady himself and it is Steve’s arm he leans upon. Steve, who always hovers nearby when Tony shows something even remotely like weakness, both eager and afraid to maybe be allowed to help. In that moment, when Tony’s hand rests on his bare skin, he freezes, and that is likely a good thing. Had Steve reacted differently, reached out himself, one tiny movement, he might have just undone all the reluctant progress they have made since he came back.

As it is, Tony steadies himself and draws back before he ever notices what exactly has happened. When he does, he grows rigid, staring at his hand then at Steve like he cannot quite process it. He keeps breathing, and then he flees.

The world does not stop. His nightmares do not get worse. Steve does not assume it is all right for him now to enter Tony’s personal space. In fact, things go on like they used to, only that Tony does not flinch quite as violently anymore when Steve makes an unexpected move.

That is when he does start experimenting. First he moves Steve’s plate to a seat closer to his in the kitchen. He stops making quite as big a berth around Steve whenever they pass each other in a hallway. He starts handing things to Steve instead of just throwing them or laying them nearby. At one point he makes sure their fingertips touch, only the smallest patch of skin and only for a second.

Tony is not quite sure how they make it from that to him ending up in Steve’s arms after a particularly bad nightmare, but his heart does not stop and Steve holds him so tentatively that not even Tony’s damaged mind can make it into something threatening.

“What are we doing?” Steve asks the night after, giving Tony halt. _We_ he said, not _you_. Like they are both involved here. Like it is not just Tony engaging in this game of tiptoeing forth and jumping back again. Like Steve is still not tired of his antics.

“I don’t know,” Tony answers, voice thick He hopes it means they are healing. “But I’m glad that we are doing it.”

Tony still cannot let his guard down completely with Steve in the vicinity. He cannot let Steve into the workshop like they used to do Before, cannot go to sleep with Steve in the room. But more often than not, they wake up together. Either Steve comes to him, helping him calm down after a nightmare, or Tony makes the way between their rooms half out of his mind with exhaustion and tiredness, nearly asleep before his head touches down.

The first moments after waking up are almost blissful, before Tony’s brain catches up and reminds him of why exactly the comfortable warmth is not the safest place for him to be. But for those short minutes he feels at home.

They are slowly piecing themselves together. Rhodey and Pepper come to visit and the evening does not end in bloody murder. Natasha stops by and shows a rare smile when she thinks they are not looking. One day, very reluctantly, Tony lets Steve back into the workshop. His bots, the traitors, greet him home like one of their own.

“I’m glad,” Steve says so quietly to Butterfingers that Tony barely hears it, but the bot’s happy beeping is unmistakeable. He feels almost bad for keeping them apart. But here they are now, his family reunited and it feels nice, even though Tony cannot bear to come far into the room, staying within feets of the door so he can flee at a moment’s notice, maybe initiate lockdown to keep Steve from him until he has calmed down. The idea of _them_ is closer than ever since Siberia, and while Tony is not quite happy about it, he is definitely relieved.

Then, of course, another war comes upon them.

With Thanos on their doorstep, all of Tony’s fears increase immensely. Death for all his friends is closer than ever and he is still as helpless. Looking at Steve gets both harder and easier. Tony knows that Steve will not stay out of this fight, will in fact go wherever the most danger is, where he is needed most. They are rather similar in that. But Tony cannot bear the thought of losing Steve another time, permanently now. Every day brings more devastating news, so their time is rapidly running out.

One night after dinner, Tony stays behind to help Steve with the dishes. They work silently while Tony cannot keep his eyes away from Steve’s hands, which he has known gentle and hard, paint-splattered and blood-flecked. It is so easy all of a sudden to reach out, to pull himself into Steve’s arms, to kiss like they have never parted.

“What happened?” Steve asks, breathlessly, drawing back far enough that he can look Tony over, even while he clings to him with a desperation showing clearly that he fears he will lose Tony if he lets go for even a second.

“I’m afraid,” Tony admits, feeling strangely calm at Steve’s closeness. This is what he has been missing, and right now, with another catastrophe filling their minds, he cannot understand how he could resist it for so long. “There’s no way all of us will make it out of this alive.”

Tony’s brain has always been fond of numbers, constantly running equations and adapting parameters. None of that is helpful when the odds are not at all in their favour. Everything is pointing towards undesirable end points here. It is not fair. They have had their share of unhappiness, more of it to last them several lifetimes. And still fate is not yet done with them. Fairness has never played much of a role in their lives.

“You have to,” Steve says like it is in his power to will Tony’s health into being. His stubbornness might be famous, but some things are even out of his reach. “You’re – I cannot –”

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers, burying his head against Steve’s chest, just so he does not have to control his expression. Steve’s heartbeat races but it is still the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.

“Whatever for?”

Where to start? They both have their regrets and Tony is not used to apologizing even while people like to lay the blame at his feet, but he is always sorry. For losing his head in Siberia and attacking Barnes, for not telling Steve everything about his work on the Accords, for loving Steve so much that their falling out essentially broke him.

Looking up at Steve to take in the blue of his eyes, once more full of gentleness, not a trace of anger in sight, he finally says, “I’m sorry for taking so very long.”

And Steve pulls him closer, pressing a kiss on his forehead. “I’m here,” he says, just like he does after every nightmare Tony has. “I’m not going anywhere without you. Not again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please tell me what you think.  
> All the best!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.  
> All the best to you.


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